


belated

by catharticsamuel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Drabbles, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2017-04-11
Packaged: 2018-10-17 21:31:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10602654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catharticsamuel/pseuds/catharticsamuel
Summary: drabbles from my tumblr





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> my writing is crap but it's whatever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s1-2

Sam’s ready to burst at the seams. Everything in the room shrinks and gets jammed in his chest before expanding again. He trembles, an earthquake goes off inside of him and Sam is real, here to destroy everything. The kitchen’s wooden table meets the fridge and Dean - honest to God - shocked, snaps around in time to see Sam shoving the stupid pot of pink petunias off the counter top. As if he didn’t see this coming. As if Sam was never going to get to the boiling point and have a break down in this line of life. As if it wasn’t going to happen after Dean being insanely unfair in an argument.

“For fuck’s sake. _Sammy,_ ” Dean yells. It gets lost over the sound of Sam’s fist puncturing a hole through the dull green drywall. Sam puts another lovely addition in before Dean grabs him, holds Sam to his chest with iron arms. “Fuckin’ _stop!_ Stop!” He gets an elbow to the ribs, punch to the face. Something weird lights up in Sam when he hears the sharp breath of air Dean makes at the hit. It becomes a free for all and Dean delivers his share. Sam gets pinned at the neck, Dean lets his fist fly and his knuckles meet Sam right in the jaw. 

It hurts. Everything hurts but Sam’s jonesing for it. They flip, Dean’s head knocks into the leg of the couch and a punch gets him under the left eye. Dean’s pretty beat up by the end of it. He doesn’t want to hurt Sam but it’s ingrained into his core; always swing back. They grapple and kick and punch and Dean’s cursing, “quit it! Quit it!” while Sam’s shirt tears in between his fingers. It’s completely shredded. The fabric stretches loud, Sam pushes Dean away but they both topple over.

It ends up with Dean on top. Sam’s wheezing underneath his knee, voice tight at the pressure, “got off o’ me!” 

Dean stays where he is but his legs move so he can straddle one of Sam’s thighs. His hands are weakly grasping Sam’s ruined shirt. They’re breathing hard, Dean’s sweat mingles with Sam’s when he presses his forehead to brother’s neck. 

Sam trembles. He sobs. Quiet and broken. Vertigo hands touch Dean’s face. “S-sorry.” Little brother voice low, thick with regret and guilt. “Sorry.”

Dean tells him it’s okay, gets up after fifteen minutes to realize Sam’s too deep in the dirt to pull himself out. Dean lifts him and carries him to bed, takes off Sam’s shirt for him, his pants. Gets an ice pack and water, cranks up the air conditioner to full blast before he crawls onto the bed, drags himself with a yearning that feels enormous whenever Sam’s willing to let him close like this. 

Sam gets kisses to his nose, his jaw. Dean thinks he can kiss the sad right out of him if he does it enough. Sam cries soft and feeble until exhaustion takes over. 

Dean’s breaths are long and drawn out, heavy. He doesn’t let go of Sam the entire night, combs back his hair and feels like he’s fifty. He throbs where Sam’s fists were. 

He thinks about how amazing Sam was doing without him at Stanford. He thinks about Sam being eighteen and telling him the same thing. He breathes in his brother and thinks about how could he ever give Sam anything that big and wonders what’s the point of all this if Sam isn’t happy.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s4 episode it's the great pumpkin sam winchester

“What the _fuck_ did I tell _you?”_ He isn’t feeling anger, that’s just it. Dean throws his duffel on the cold concrete floor. The heel of his boots know this ground, they’ve been to cemeteries all over. They make all the right sounds at the thunderous volumes Dean wants them to be when he engraves them to the lonely hard foundation. He’s walked through these architectures dedicated to the departed, lore following closely behind him ever since Dean has chased after it.

Sam is silent as stone. The walls around them are more alike to his brother than Dean wants to think about. He yanks at Sam’s jacket. Dean shoves Sam for all he’s worth. He can’t feel sorry at the sickening crack of bone thumping against the colored glass. “What the fuck did I tell you?” He isn’t furious, as much as he lets on, snarls with bared teeth- teeth meant to scare off predators and devils- he’s scared. He can’t loose Sam to whatever this bane is. Sam knows he can’t keep Azazel’s curse to try and make something good out of himself, he told Dean it was playing with fire, he was done. If Sam goes down this road, it’s possible Dean can’t get him back.

Sam doesn’t say a word, he’s got his fingers digging into Dean’s shoulders. He’s swallowed mausoleums bigger than the one Samhain dies in tonight. They’re all broken to bits from being dropped onto one another, wearing down pieces of Sam’s insides from the fall. Sam can’t keep doing this, he’s spewing up too much gravel already. Dean’s crumbling but he’s the only one who’s ever held Sam together. 

Sam has his head on ice, it hurts so fucking much. Exercising demons aren’t exactly easy but it’s been a while. Dean shakes him and shakes him, “The fuck did I fucking tell you, Sam?” Big brother voice, stern and beautiful when it cracks. “The fuck is wrong with you?” 

Dean brings Sam’s forehead to his and they both breathe out. Dean doesn’t freak like he wants too. He pulls and Sam comes as easily as it was to push, brings him back to ghosts that you can’t touch and headstones with bones in boxes six feet under. None of this physic ability bullshit. “Do you want me to loose you?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s4 e1-3

Sam’s lost when Dean comes back to him. He’s never felt so messed up in his entire life. What it used to be, what they had- shy touches turning into “come here you girl” and soft raspy tongues saying words that were usually guarded behind wired fences. Gentle love, soft and slow sex. Curled around each other all night, no sex. 

But he can’t stop hooking up with Ruby. He needs it, the blood. She won’t let him have it unless she gets what she wants. He’s already gotten this far. Sam saves people the demons possess, sends then straight back to hell. It’s all he wants to do, he can rescue them. He can’t say no to that. 

It gets complicated. Dean doesn’t know. Sam fucks around with Ruby and Dean kisses “sweetheart” into his mouth when he returns to the motel room. He’s a liar, a cheater. They’re both rough with him. Dean especially. His brother bites at him, growls when he moans, it’s aggressive. Sam gets pushed and shoved, held down, held down. He feels dirty, wrong. Incest and a succubus. He can’t run, there’s no where to run. Nothing about him is good. 

After, Dean holds him. Either in a lazy sprawl of limbs or tight enough where he can’t breathe, a kiss to his neck. He has this, at least. Sam knows he isn’t worth it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-series

Sam can’t do it. Don’t ask him too, he won’t. He doesn’t have too. Bruises are black and purple on his rib cage, browns and greens between. He looks colored in with forgotten pastels. Chalk blended into his body with fingerprints that have never been his.

Paper and pencil are a clarity while his brother is the dandelion he makes the same wish on every time. Everything is above ninety four whenever Sam takes a punch to the gut or nick to the neck. The letter sits in his hand every night, Sam rereads a couple of times before it starts to get overwhelming with opportunity and chance. 

Claws are the curve of his spine, Sam knows how to rip it out and put it to its intended use. His hands aren’t supposed to know suitcases or the soft dip in someone else’s waist. 

Not his brother’s waist. He’ll snatch Dean’s laughter by the gallon and bury it deep inside himself. Sam tries to drench his hand with Dean smiles and scrubs it harsh in his skin. It never seems to stay. It isn’t his to take. Dean isn’t his to take.

Stanford is a world beyond Dean, but he can do it. Don’t ask him too, he will.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> pre-series

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the song phone calls by atlas

Sam left for Stanford a while ago. Dean gets his grip with Jack Daniels and squeezing the necks of other brand name bottled alcohol. It’s glass shards in his palms and blood slides down his wrist in thin lines. It’s wet and turns cold like Sam’s thundering answer when Dean calls and it goes to voice mail. Rings and rings and rings- It’s the wall holding him up when he feels like he’s on the floor. Everything comes to him slow and the whole room spins. Tips and swirls. It feels great when the night sky is fierce and oozes through the window, dripping onto him and soaking his clothes, into his skin, teeth clattering, and bone deep.

Dean’s got something bad in him. Sam knows it. Why else is he gone? He’s got someone else’s skeleton tucked deep inside his rib cage. His are old and moan like a tired ship. It sways and rocks, trying to ease who’s ever stuck in his body. Covered by muscle and organ, disguising Dean’s sick harboring. 

He never leaves a voicemail. Listens to Sam’s when he says he’d get back to him later, but he isn’t talking to Dean. Won’t ever talk to Dean. Being hung over with stars tied to his back get heavier each time he dials. Eventually he can’t take it and drives to Sam. He’s got to put them back, he has to put them back. The bones and the stars. If Sam would just fucking pick up the phone. But he’ll answer the door. He’s got too. Twice, only twice Dean knocks. Four times. 

Why Dean thought the door would open, he doesn’t know.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s3

“What am I supposed to do?”  
He thinks this exact phrase at an alarming, rapid rate, it’s exponential. Increasing, increasing. It’s screaming, it’s screaming. It beckons him with there has to be a way. He truly believes. It’s everywhere and everything. Peeled and chipped motel wall paper curling towards him. Freshly paved black roads that are faded and full of potholes the next day. Ugly yellow streetlights bleeding onto his skin. It’s a race. And time is winning. 

It becomes black coffee with no sugar. Bitter and heart achingly strong because sure, Sam could add cream. Used to love vanilla frappes but not when Dean sits across from him with ‘the morning dose for Sammy’ smile. Not when Dean acts like he isn’t going to hell. It becomes. Grey. Dull. Dark. Black. Black. Black. He knows. Dean knows. Why isn’t he pulling Sam closer? _What am I supposed to do? What am I supposed to do?_

There’s nothing online. No book old enough that’s stuffed brutally with dust. No ancient bones for a hex to keep the devils out and far away. No pair of nothing-but-the-pupil eyes flooding white that will offer his brother a way out. There’s nothing. _What am I supposed to do without you?_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cute au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> inspired by the song sand by atlas

“How would it go?”   
Sam asks with a voice softened like buttercream, sweet and filling. Dean smiles wide and broad like his shoulders. Everything about Sam is cute, he’s hopeful and tragic like the surface of the sea. If Dean wasn’t feeling like that himself; he’d drop some cold line to leave Sam feeling rode hard and hung up wet. He doesn’t though, instead he gets close enough so that their noses brush, grabs a hold of Sam’s hand tight and it’s clear as a bell when he thinks he doesn’t ever want to let this go.

They do it.  
Settle down by the shore. Warm summer days in a beach house all year where the snow is close to nothing in the winter months. Sam’s golden like the sun and the sand between Dean’s toes. Beautiful garden roses perched along cement ledges, they come by in rows. Dean tries for mechanic shops, words like the high tide, confident. Alluring. They love him instantly. But he finds himself working as a bar tender in one of the hottest places to be on a Friday night.

Sam works at a “famous” flower shop. It’s not, it’s just popular and he’s almost a myth by how fast he’s climbed to the top. Becomes a manager. Co-owner. He is Dean’s oxygen inside his chest, coming home and smelling like springtime in the shade. Fresh and a warm embrace where he smothers Dean with his question from before all of it, “would you run away with me?” Dean answers the best he knows how, a one shouldered shrug and a nonverbal way of saying “let’s start a new life right now.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> s3

It feels like lingering cigarette smoke on clothes. For the most part it’s done, stick on the ground and snuffed out with a boot. Polish the guns, rummage through a duffel- a small whiff of it will remind him he had one today. It’s clinging to his jacket but Sam won’t say anything, because Dean tells him he doesn’t remember. Though, hell isn’t some nasty habit Dean’s been trying to kick because he dreams about it fairly often enough. Every night it’s the same god damn thing. Eyes fly open, body glued to the bed, doesn’t move- it paints itself on the back of Dean’s eyes and waits when he closes them. The air is quiet and crisp in a motel room. Sam’s breathing is beautiful and everything Dean’s ever needed to his left.

What he doesn’t understand is how Sam’s able to touch him. How his hand doesn’t come away burned or mutilated every time. It’s not damaged like he is. It’s amazing, Sam doesn’t get disgusted by him. Even smiles at him and laughs when Dean makes a joke. He knows he must be hard to look at, if Sam knew what he did from his time down under. How can he ever tell Sam? He is what he hunts, monster. Sam would run.

Dean’s Dean. And he’ll be what he was even if he’s got a gigantic big dark nothing inside. Sam’s convinced, it seems because Dean’s tired of holding it in when he can taste Sam’s heavy breathing. Right underneath him. He doesn’t know what happened, he’s trying to hold his shit down but they’re talking and everything goes away when Dean steps too close. Too focused and Sam’s mouth is his. They’re on a bed, sheets neat and made as Sam squirms and shoves his cold hands up Dean’s shirt. It feels so good. It feels fucking great, Dean wants to cry. Most days everything’s hot, too fucking hot and Sam is perfect.

They’re kissing and it feels like Dean’s fourteen, not sure how to go about this because it’s his first. But Dean’s not fourteen, and this is Sam. He doesn’t want to fuck it up even though Dean knows he already has. This is about Sam, it’s also about how Dean’s trying to handle it all after getting back. Post hell and Dean knows he doesn’t deserve this. But that’s the butt of the joke; he’s a selfish bastard who’ll take and take to try and cope like this. With his brother. Who’s beyond amazing when he unbuckles Dean’s belt, when he so kind to kiss Dean, when they’re shirtless and without anything else. Sam’s hands are gentle when Dean bites at his neck. It’s an awful clash, Dean thinks, but he can’t help it. They’re a secret in the night, hidden and shy in the dark of some nameless motel, Dean eats Sam alive until his little brother is crying. There’s tears and Dean licks at them, getting off on Sam’s sobbing, he’s making his little brother feel good. So, that’s got to be something. He’ll dream about skin and lips and eyes but they won’t be Sam’s like he wants so very bad. What he used to have. Though, when he wakes, he won’t be alone.


End file.
